The sound dissolves my aggression—not at all what I was expecting. I shift my weight from one foot to the other, wondering, well? What now?
She holds her ribcage with one arm, and her body quakes with sadness. One minute, she’s murderous, and the next, she’s drowning in tears. The waterworks fall from her jaw to my shirt, where they change the lighter blue to dark. With every drop, I feel the tension in my muscles fade. Anger is replaced by something else—unease—as her teeth start to chatter and her shaking sobs morph to shivers.
“You’re cold.” I barely hear myself over the sound of her crying.
I rearrange the animal pelts she’s been using as bedding to pull them closer to the woodstove. I reach for her hand, only to have her recoil.
I stand back and motion to the spot I prepared for her. “You need to get warm.”
When she doesn’t immediately move, I decide she may need time, so I go about clearing her meal from the floor. By the time I’ve finished, she’s moved to her bed, her puffy eyes closed and tear-stained cheeks illuminated by the fire.
I turn my chair to eat, choosing to face her for my own safety. I wouldn’t put it past her to attack me when I’m not looking. Her breathing is uneven, so I know she’s not asleep, and yet I get the sense that she wants me to believe she is.
What more could she possibly want from me?
I tell her the truth, that her promise maker is no kind of man at all if he’d leave her to wander the woods alone, and she spits in my face, rejects my help, and threatens to shoot me.
The quiet in the cabin draws my attention. Sometime during her breakdown, the pouring rain outside went silent. I turn toward the single window as dread fills my chest.
Snow fills the glass frame. “Shit,” I grumble.
Just when I thought things couldn’t possibly get worse.
The rest of the night is thankfully silent. Seems like the emotional breakdown has taken away her will to talk. A silver lining on the shit cloud of our situation.
I offered her food again, and again it went untouched. She also refused her antibiotic and pain pill. I considered shoving them down her throat but decided I’m in no position to lose a finger. She seemed content to stare at the fire and sleep, so I left her to go to my bed early.
With the woodstove stuffed, the temperature is still cooler than most nights because of the new snow outside. I only hope it doesn’t fall for too long.
I wake in the middle of the night to hear the fire being stoked and more wood being thrown in the stove. She’s up and taking care of her needs, and a sense of calm comes over me. My wild captive is getting healthier. This means she could become a bigger threat.
I reach behind my pillow to the box of ammo I keep hidden. I’m not stupid enough to think just because she can’t get to the bullets, she won’t hurt me. I have to trust she’d never jeopardize her life by taking mine. After all, without me, she’d be bear food under that tree in the ravine.
The heat rises from a freshly stocked stove, and I wonder if she’s strong enough to climb the ladder. Given the way she held my rifle, I’d think it possible for her to climb up here and slit my throat in my sleep. I wish I could explain how dangerous picking fights with me can be. I can’t always control what happens when I’m pushed. Sometimes, people get hurt.
We can’t go on like this.
Tomorrow, over breakfast, I’m going to have to be the one to initiate a conversation, and if she refuses to abide by my rules, we’re both as good as dead.
Jordan
“Pills.” His big fist interrupts the view of the book I’m reading, followed by a tin cup of water.
I consider telling him to shove those pills straight up his ass. Unfortunately, a sleepless night without pain meds helped me come to the conclusion that I need his help more than I thought.
And he’s right. Lincoln doesn’t care about me. He wanted me to hike to that waterfall alone so he could get his hands on Courtney. My friend. Are they looking for me? Or are they happy to be rid of the only person keeping them apart?
I close the book. He drops the pills into my open palm, and I wash them down with water.
I expect him to return to his chair with his back toward me as he does every day. My heart jumps a little when he squats to eye level. He’s not wearing a beanie, and his dark hair is overgrown, a little dirty, and pushed back from his face. His hazel eyes are as warm as I’ve ever seen them but no less intense as he stares at me.
My instinct is to pepper him with a million questions. What is it? What do you want to say? Spit it out! I bite my bottom lip, fearing I might chase away his words with my own. His gaze drops to my mouth, and behind his thick beard, his lips part.
I clutch the book to my chest. He tilts his head and eyes the faded fabric cover. “The Great Gatsby. You gave up on the Mohicans?” His voice is gentle, as if he’s talking to a scared kitten.
When I don’t answer, he sighs, looks away from me with a pained expression, and then drops to his butt, settling in. I tuck my legs in tighter to put as much distance between us as possible, as his size has me pinned in place.
He studies the walls around me, the floor, and my hands on the book until finally, his gaze meets mine. “What happened yesterday can’t happen again.” He tilts his head, waiting for me to respond. I don’t. “You’ll never make it out of here if we can’t trust each other.”
My breath catches, and even though it’s subtle, I have no doubt he notices. This is the first time he’s mentioned me getting out of here. But there seemed to be a thinly veiled threat in his statement. I’ll never make it out of here? Or I’ll never make it out of here alive?
“If I’ve fairly earned your distrust, I apologize.” He scratches at his jaw and then runs his hand through his hair. “Never been very good with people.”
No shit, I think dryly.
“I will try…” His nose wrinkles as if his words taste sour in his mouth. “Harder.”
“Why won’t you tell me your name?” I never realized the trust it takes to share something as simple as a name. Is he an outlaw? Afraid if I know his name, I’ll run to the cops as soon as I’m free of this place? Or worse, does he plan to hurt me, and if I manage to escape, does he fear I’ll turn him in? What other reason could he have for not giving me his name?
“My name is irrelevant.” His brows pinch together. “I’m prepared to offer you shelter, medical care, food. I didn’t think you required my name.”
“Do you want to know mine?”
“I don’t need to know your name in order to provide your basic needs.”
“But if we’re to trust each other, shouldn’t we start with our names?”
He seems to think that over before issuing a quick nod. “If that’s what you need.”
“My name’s Jordan.”
His eyebrows pull closer together. “You don’t look like a Jordan.”
I find the utter disbelief in his expression amusing. “Who do I look like?”
His gaze skates along the animal pelt at my feet. “Something softer. Lily or Daisy.”
“You’re saying I remind you of a flower?”
“Yes.” His eyes meet mine, and in their hazel depths, I see no playful spark or flicker of lust, only resolution.